


Loki Laufeyson, who is a father

by Dead Cacti (TinyStarling)



Category: Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: And also Thor, Gen, Loki Needs a Hug, Loki's Kids, Loki-centric, Luckily He Visits His Kids, the only nephew he likes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 20:55:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyStarling/pseuds/Dead%20Cacti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Loki instigates Baldr's death, he goes to visit all his children, one way or another. (Also, someone requested Thor as a bonus, and so he will be.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Best of Horses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amster/gifts).



> This is for you, Pointy McSteve. Loki is basically the best father. (With bonus angry kid!Thor.)
> 
> I am also not an expert on the mythology, so feel free to point out my errors (and know that I will be taking some artistic license) because I love to learn. Anyone want to send me resources, go ahead. Anyone hate me for doing this? Alright, do what you will, and I'll try to address you civilly and perhaps we can agree to disagree. This is all fun and games.

Loki does not have much time, nor does he have much that he can call his own. Some would call that strength. 

Family is a weakness, but it is one that Loki gladly accepts. The Aesir are on the chase. They wish to hunt him down and bind him—and only his own blood can do that. Few things can do that, but blood always can. Killing him is not overmuch a true option, considering she who resides in Niflheim, who holds authority over nine worlds. 

He cannot run forever. He must do this thing. From the first to the last, from those he sired to those he birthed, Loki has a fondness for them all. How can a father not, as hard-won as all of them are, from all his wives? They say he is not one of them where he was previously, these Aesir, though he is as well-bred as the raven god himself and resided amongst them all for many a year. They have forgotten this, but he is more like them than any Jotunn.

Odin, who was his bloodbrother (is he still?) cannot forgive him, not this time. He has helped and hindered, and Loki knows they cannot trust him. It is only in his nature. He does not take sides. Loki does understand the need for vengeance. He does not know if the All-father still calls him so, but the Liesmith would not call any who slay one of _his_ sons his brother. 

( Baldr is dead by his blind twin’s hand, but they all cast the shadow of blame on him, slain by an arrow with the only substance sworn not to harm him. (It took cunning to find his only weakness. Gossiping women and good strong ale aided in the endeavor. With this, the end will start. He refuses to cry for the son of Odin and Frigga, though Loki understands the need for vengeance. )

He must leave, and he knows that there will not be another chance. Sleipnir, his foal, his colt grown into the best of horses, is here. Any other time, the Aesir would be correct in the assumption that he would run, but this will be the death of him. 

Or nearly so, they would not send him to his daughter. 

Perhaps he can survive, perhaps he will see them all again, but the pragmatic voice of reason tells him that it is not so. He will live until the battle—when Ragnarök comes—and he could not survive afterwards, even if he tried. The world will be submerged in water, and he of fire, will not survive. So he says his farewells to a sleeping Sleipir; Loki hasn’t the heart to awaken the lumbering eight-legged child he bore. Loki is foolish ever to return, and he gave this child to his brother, when they were still as close as brothers. Loki knows that many think him as cold as his father (and, oftentimes, as weak as his mother) so he would not be above using his children. That may be true, perhaps, but he does not do that today. They have seen the end, and he knows better than to seek out his wife--they will find him too easily, and his twin boys are too close to Odin to visit them safely.

Besides, it is rare to find Sleipnir sleeping, much less sprawled across the ground, legs everywhere askew like he was a mere foal again. It dawns on the mischief maker that as much as he wishes, he cannot take his son as well, whose coat is the same gleaming grey as the day he was foaled. His son snores softly in well-contented rest. Loki is quiet and masks his movements, and there is still room in the stall for him, if a bit snug against the hay. Sitting nestled in the horse's limbs does not seem like a comfortable prospect, though Loki would sit closer to his son. 

Relief floods him. They have not hurt him, have not bound the horse. Have the Aesir forgotten that this is his child? Perhaps. Sleipnir has been Odin’s steed for many a year. One of Sleipnir’s ears seems to perk up and await a sound, but Loki makes none, but later, he will find that his mouth moves of its own accord making soft and lulling sounds because his child need not be worried for him, need not be afraid for him. 

It’s all too easy finding himself scratching behind Sleipnir’s ears. Loki doesn’t know what draws him to it, but he has not done this for what seems like centuries. The horse softly chuffs and makes a vaguely pleased sound, and the horse has not grown that big that the son of Laufey does not remember where the once-colt likes to be petted by the feel of it. The pair of them seem to stay like that for hours, though it couldn't possibly be that long without the aid of magic (so maybe it was).

Loki's hands migrate from the fold of skin behind the horse's ears to Sleipnir's neck, and the solid form in the trickster god's hands seems to be at ends with his son's name. He does not have a brush or otherwise, the thief of Idunn would have stayed longer than he does already. It is hard to let go of him, harder than even birthing the best of all horses. 

Somehow, he manages. 

As he leaves, Loki spies his son's eyes opening, and he hushes any sound in there. "Shh," a father says to his child. "Go back to sleep." 

Like a good boy, the horse shifts into a more comfortable position and does as his father bids him.


	2. Guardian of the Graves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even. I'm sorry. This was supposed to be short. I lost my hard copies. Again. Argh. Just. I don't even think this is the same style as the last chapter. I'm sorry.

Éljúðnir is the hall of Loki’s daughter, and few know it as well as he does. As well, Loki journeys farther and faster than Odin gives him credit for, but they haven’t run together and hunted for quite some time. Niflheim is a trifling bore, to be honest. It is meant to be that way, and the inhabitants are none too gentle with him, neither. 

The less that is said about them, the greater relief Loki seems to feel. 

It is for the best, after all, rather than to talk about the people. 

Hel is at the door when Loki knocks. He expects her to be, as all the travelers through do, and they’re usually perturbed at what they see. His daughter is beautiful, after a fashion. She was born with half a skeleton exposed to the air, one half of her face expressive and rosy and perfect in life, and the other half rotting, maggots in the eyesocket, bone sun-bleached white though she had just emerged from the womb, his only daughter nestled in with Loki’s sons.

It doesn’t even take a moment for Hel to change. Maybe all his children are monsters, save the ones he left with his wife, the one that Loki dares not think about. Magic is almost a disease, almost, but he’s the one who knows best. 

It’s fitting that his only daughter inherited his magic. At least this magic, at least. 

This moment, she’s a child. She’s the same child, yet not the same. She looks like the girl they took out of the cave, took away from him and her mother, and it hurts so much, his beautiful girl. She’s always beautiful. Hel is alive, though half of her is almost-dead and rotting about it. Her hair is still long and with a sheen that would do Idunn shame, and her cheeks are rosy and pink. 

“Father!” Hel exclaims, and she’s excited, bouncing even in her black stockings. “I wasn’t expecting you.” 

Loki smiles indulgently. “I’ve missed you, too.” 

“Of course,” Hel says, “Of course I have.” 

Loki is looking into the same big blue eyes except they look straight into his eyes. She’s older, and Hel looks the most life-like he can ever see her, though occasionally, there is the glimpse of her, white as a corpse and only a bit blue, hair as white as bone, which is impossibly whiter. The dress, more of a dressing gown, doesn’t even reach her knees. Maggots and small furry creatures run through that hair, crawls and bites at the bone. 

“Father,” she says again with a heavy sigh. “You’d best come in.” 

“Yes,” he agrees, considering that Hel moves with a weight on her shoulders that he doesn’t even feel, he doesn’t even protest. Loki cannot imagine the weight of the realms pressures on his precious girl. “They will come for him.” 

They cannot waste time, even for the pleasantries. The faint trace of Hela’s smile fades with that. Loki has no time to even remove his coat, and they take seats at a small table. Her smaller hands unconsciously reach for his, and it is her, the child, the daughter, that tries to support him when she has too much on her hands already. Something in Loki’s heart cannot take it, but he must. 

Hel, too grown yet too young, nods. “They will. Baldr has come to my halls, and my realm will take the consequences.” 

“It should not,” Loki tries to protest, “But it will. That fool.” He cannot summon even vehemence to support himself. “Such a fool.” He does not know who he curses more, Bor’s son or himself. 

Hel shakes her head, and a maggot falls on the table, wriggles around, and with its blackened skin, withers away and dies. “Life is short, Father.” 

“Even for Aesir,” Loki can’t help but snort, as bad as an example as that is. “The end will come.” 

“That’s precisely why they’re so angry at you,” her look is fond and soft. “And why you cannot stay, though you do not visit often. The end times have come, with that death.”

Chided by his own child, Loki thought, though he does deserve it. “I’m not one for walking into danger willingly. I know myself better than that.” 

She smiles, and he can’t help but think, this is my daughter, too wise and too young. Hel knows him the best, better than his sons, who may be strong and dangerous, but they are none too bright. 

Still, it takes only a moment for the mood to change. Hel stands up, tucking the chair back in neatly, and then she’s shorter, and her dress suddenly reaches down to her ankles again. She’s bouncing happily over to him, with a happy smile, climbing into his lap. 

None of that glamour cloaks her this time. 

Half of her is bone and a skull that was never and will never make any expression at all. The other half is rosy, with frail cheekbones and delicate features, the envy of dreaming maidens shirking their duties. 

He brushes her hair: partly because Hel asks him to, and Loki is nothing if not an indulgent father; partly because he can pretend that they’re still in the cave, that none of them have reached Odin’s eyes—well, eye, and attentions.

They pretend, for a little while. They know, next time they see each other, one of them will be dead.


End file.
